Undisclosed Page 6

  I asked for directions, and learned Paula lives on a dirt road, off of a dirt road, off of a—dirt road. At least Lionel gave me some landmarks along the way. “Pass the round barn on your right,” he said, “and once you cross the covered bridge over Eagle Creek, you can’t miss it. It’s the house with the big woodpile.”

  “Like every other house this time of year,” I said.

  “No one’s woodpile is as big as Paula’s. Should I call and tell her you’re on your way?”

  Good idea. I had only met the woman once, and I was about to stop by uninvited. I thanked Lionel for his trouble, and headed for the door.

  “What’s this about?” he asked, and I stopped short. “What should I tell Paula?”

  “Tell her something’s come up at the old Tumbleton place.” I blinked. “Tell her something was—undisclosed.”

  ***

  Paula Erikson was waiting at her door and beckoned me inside. “Lionel called,” she said as we extended hands.

  I asked if she remembered me. “I tagged along once when you were showing my father the house at Lake Bess.”

  “Of course I remember you.” She gestured for my jacket. “And of course I remember your father. Cute as a button.” She held my jacket and looked me up and down. “It runs in the family.”

  Maybe, but my cute as a button-ness pales in comparison to my father’s. He might be only five foot seven, but Bobby Baxter is the epitome of dapper.

  Paula offered coffee or tea, but I declined, and we stepped over to two easy chairs in front of her massive fireplace. “That matches your woodpile outside,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Some women knit, some women split wood.”

  And yes, some women do. Although Joe splits the wood for everyone on Leftside Lane, I know several female Vermonters who’ve made chopping wood a hobby. They tell me it’s a good upper body work out.

  “So?” Paula was asking. “How is your father? Lionel mentioned something is wrong with the house?”

  “Not wrong, exactly,” I said. “I take it you haven’t spoken to Jason Sterling?”

  “Who?”

  “He’s with the state troopers.”

  Well, that certainly got her attention. “Did someone get hurt?” she asked me. “Did the roof cave in? The septic? For goodness sake, what’s wrong?”

  I waved to calm her down, and then explained what was wrong. Umm. I explained twice.

  Paula blinked. “A skull?”

  “A human skull,” I clarified, and she blinked again.

  “And I thought I’d seen everything in this business,” she said eventually. “I always tried to do my homework for my clients, but who could have predicted this?” She shook her head. “Apologize to your father for me?”

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, but I do feel somewhat—” She stopped. “It was murder, wasn’t it? You’re looking into it, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

  I shrugged, and Paula actually smiled. “If anyone can figure this out, it’s you.” She tapped my knee and nodded, and of course mentioned the dead redhead incident. “I thought of calling your father at the time, but—”

  “But what?” I asked.

  She sighed. “But anyway,” she said. “I was so impressed to hear how Bobby’s daughter the super sleuth solved that case.” She smiled. “I think I also heard on the news that you now live with your father? That’s what he was hoping, you know.”

  I shrugged and told her about Truman also. “But, about this skull.” I sat forward. “Can you tell me anything?”

  She shook her head and insisted the contents of any property are the seller’s responsibility. “Have you spoken to the seller’s agent?”

  “Oliver Earle. Remember him?”

  “The poor man. Something like this could ruin his reputation, Cassie.”

  Yeah, right. I laughed at that ridiculous notion and assured the woman nothing could damage Oliver Earle’s reputation at Lake Elizabeth.

  “Lake Elizabeth.” She continued shaking her head. “How did something this—macabre—happen in that bucolic little town?”

  I grimaced. “Umm. Have you ever heard of Mr. X?”

  ***

  Believe it or not, Paula had. And believe it or not, she remembered the basic story.

  “I realize the story was in the news,” I said. “But Pru Pearson found that skeleton so long ago, I certainly didn’t remember the story.”

  “No, but you’re not in real estate,” Paula said. “Realtors tend to remember anything involving real estate.” She shrugged. “And I did try to sell the place once.”

  I jumped. “The Fox Cove Inn? You tried to sell the Fox Cove? When?”

  “Oh, ages and ages ago. I had a client in the market for an inn on a lake.”

  I scowled. “And you tried to sell them the Fox Cove Inn?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “More like incredulous,” I said. “I always assumed the Fox Cove was, like, permanently attached to the Pearson family.”

  Paula told me that was precisely the problem. “I had a buyer, but not a seller,” she explained. “I contacted someone in—where was it?”

  “Boston,” I said. “The Pearsons lived in Boston for a while.”

  “Boston, then. An Alan, or Arthur, Pearson?”

  “Arnie,” I corrected. “He was the owner until his daughters inherited.”

  She nodded. “However, Arnie Pearson of Boston wasn’t interested in selling. Unfortunate, because ghosts sell.”

  I jumped again. “You know about the ghosts?” I asked, but Paula calmly reminded me she does her “homework” for her clients.

  “The Fox Cove Inn has quite the reputation,” she said. “In fact, I got the impression almost everyone in that tiny town of yours has some family connection they’d rather forget.”

  “Some skeleton in the closet?” I asked. “Pun intended.”

  She shrugged. “Being the damn fine realtor that I am, I intended to play up the legends and lore for all they were worth.”

  I was skeptical, but Ms. Damn Fine Realtor insisted a little notoriety is a good thing.

  “Ghosts sell.” She frowned. “Although that headless skeleton they found in the Honeymoon Cottage might have scared off even the most determined of buyers.”

  “It must have been pretty traumatic for Pru,” I agreed.

  “Who?”

  “Pru Pearson. She and her sister, Arnie’s daughters, are trying to make a go of the place as a B and B.”

  “Perhaps you should talk to them, Cassie.”

  I snarled at that thoroughly unpleasant idea, and Paula cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s just say the Pearson sisters aren’t known for their cooperative spirits,” I told her.

  “Well then, perhaps you should leave it to the proper authorities.” She waited to catch my eye. “I assume that’s what your father would prefer? He must worry about you, Cassie.”

  Well. Maybe. “But he shouldn’t,” I argued. “Especially this time. This time I’m not even looking for the killer. This time I’m looking for the loved ones.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I promised my little boy we’d find Mr. X’s loved ones, but in the meantime.” I stood up and mentioned I needed to get back to campus.

  “When does vacation start?” Paula asked as she fetched my jacket, and I told her Crabtree would officially close on Wednesday.

  “For three glorious weeks,” I added. I slipped on my jacket and thanked her for her time, and as she led me to her door, she asked to be kept posted. We exchanged phone numbers—cell and home. “You’ve been very helpful,” I told her as I turned to leave.

  “You know, there is one other thing.” She waved a hand. “Oh, but that can’t be important.”

  “What?” I asked. “What can’t be important?”

  “They were built by the same architect.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your father’s house and the Fox Cove Inn,” she
said. “They were built by the same person.”

  I scowled. “Old Mr. Tumbleton? Are you sure?”

  No, but the damn fine realtor was pretty sure. “Both places are Victorian,” she said, and we both laughed out loud. “Victorian-esque,” she tried, and you know what? She did have a point. There are definite similarities between the two places.

  “Funny I’ve never noticed,” I said.

  “You’re not a realtor,” she reminded me. “You say the B and B is in business again? How nice.”

  Maybe, but I told her the Fox Cove was struggling to stay afloat.

  “That’s odd,” she said. “Ghosts are usually good for business.”

  Chapter 11

  Ghosts are good for distraction also. I made it back to my office, and tried to concentrate on my work, but luckily Sarah called to save me from Michael Tomasi’s essay. “What’s the news?” she asked.

  “Michael Tomasi doesn’t know a darn thing about Augustus.”

  “Say what?”

  “The emperor of Ancient Rome.” I tossed Michael’s exam aside. “I’ve also been thinking about ghosts.”

  “Say what?”

  “The ghost-guys of Fox Cove Inn,” I said. “You’ve heard the skull definitely belongs to Mr. X?”

  “Duh.”

  “Okay, so stop pussy-footing around and tell me what else you’ve heard.”

  “Nothing,” she insisted. “That’s why I’m calling you. What’s the news?”

  I rolled my eyes and reminded the woman she’s the one who works for the sheriff. “You must know more than I do.”

  Apparently not, although she did tell me Sheriff Hawthorn had her reviewing Sheriff Gabe Cleghorn’s old reports.

  “About Mr. X?” I stood up to pace. “About the Fox Cove?” I picked up some speed. “About Pru Pearson finding that skeleton? What, what, what?”

  “Patience, babe.”

  “Not one of my virtues, babe. What’s on that report?”

  “Nothing you haven’t already heard,” Sarah said. “Unless you count Itsy and Bitsy.”

  I stopped short. “Who?”

  “Goats, Cassie.”

  Goats. But of course.

  “Oden Poquette was there,” I said, and Sarah told me I’m brilliant.

  In case you haven’t quite caught on, I’m not. But I can explain Oden Poquette and his goats. Oden’s farm is just up the hill from the Fox Cove Inn, so it almost made sense he and his goats would get involved the day Pru found that skeleton. Let’s just say, Oden’s goats tend to wander. Nowadays that means Rose and Ruby, but back then it must have been—

  “I think Bitsy was Ruby’s mother,” Sarah was saying.

  I asked who else—what other human beings—had been there when Pru found Mr. X. “Sheriff Cleghorn, the Pearson sisters, Oden—” I stopped. “And that Hilleville cop, right? Cornelius Suitor?”

  “Nope.”

  “You mentioned him yesterday, Sarah.”

  “But he’s not in these reports,” she said. “I guess he was retired by then. You talk to him yet?”

  I sat back down. “Why even bother if he wasn’t there?”

  “Cornelius knows a lot about a lot, Cassie.”

  Speaking of knowing a lot, I asked how she even knew I’m looking into the Mr. X thing.

  “Duh. Because you’re Cassie Baxter, and your son found a human skull. Of course you’re looking into the Mr. X thing.”

  Have I’ve mentioned Sarah Bliss knows me well?

  “So go talk to Cornelius Suitor, already.”

  “Patience,” I sang.

  “Not one of my virtues,” she sang back. “What are you waiting for?”

  I was waiting to talk to Fanny Baumgarten. “I remembered when you mentioned Cornelius that he’s friends with Fanny,” I said.

  “And you’re friends with Fanny.”

  “Exactly. So I’ll ask Fanny to put in a good word for me.”

  “What-ever. In the meantime, how many cockamamie theories have you come up with?”

  “About Mr. X? How about zero.”

  “What!? Truman found that skull over twenty-four hours ago. Miss Looney Tunes should have at least a dozen theories by now.”

  “I’ve been busy.” I snarled at Michael’s essay. “And maybe you don’t know everything, anyway,” I said. “I’m not looking for the murderer this time. This time I’m looking for the loved ones.” I explained my promise to Truman. “It was his idea.”

  “He’s a nice kid, Cassie.”

  I agreed he was. “And I’ve made some progress already,” I said and mentioned my visit to my father’s realtor. “She told me Oliver Earle’s reputation is on the line since he was the seller’s agent.”

  “Like anything could damage Oliver’s reputation.”

  “No kidding. But Paula Erikson also got me thinking about the Fox Cove and the ghost-guys.” I again frowned at poor Michael’s essay. “Although anything’s likely to distract me right now. You wouldn’t believe the gobs of grading—”

  “You should talk to the Pearson sisters, Cassie.”

  “A chore even more painful than grading.” I twirled my chair to stare out the window. “Speaking of impossible tasks.” I reminded Sarah I would be Santa Claus for the first time ever. “By the way, thank PT for me.”

  “What for?”

  “For his snowmobile safety demonstration at the Winter Carnival. Now Truman wants one.”

  “He’s too little.”

  I rolled my eyes and told her even I knew that much. “But help me out,” I said. “Who keeps the mailbox to the North Pole between Winter Carnivals?”

  “No idea.”

  “Come on, Sarah. You’re the sheriff’s right-hand woman. You know everything.”

  “I’m not an elf.”

  Which reminded me. I asked if the high school hockey team was still collecting old toys.

  “You got some?”

  “Truman does. But I need new toys. What should I get him?”

  “I’m not an elf.”

  “Oh, come on!” I reminded the woman she’s the mother of three teenaged boys. “What did they want when they were five?”

  “Whatever obnoxiously noisy techno-gizmo was popular back then. Those toys are all outdated by now, Cassie.”

  I sighed. “And Joe’s already got the noisy techno-gizmo covered.”

  “Umm.” Sarah hesitated. “What’s up with you and Joe?”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Does Joe know about you and Sterling?”

  “What about me and Sterling?”

  “I saw you in bed together, Cassie.”

  “What!? Earth to Sarah Bliss, we were standing up and fully clothed.”

  “But who knows what would have happened to if I hadn’t arrived when I did.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We were searching for human remains, Sarah. Doesn’t that sound all cozy?”

  “Looked pretty cozy to me, babe.”

  ***

  Fa la la la la. My red pen and I somehow made it through a dozen exams before thoughts of Mr. X distracted me again. I called Fanny Baumgarten.

  At eighty-six Fanny’s the oldest living Elizabethan. She was the sole teacher at the Lake School for many decades, and has known everyone in town, all the natives anyway, since they were Truman’s age. Needless to say, she’s a font of information. I should probably also mention that due to age and macular degeneration, Fanny is blind, ‘as a bat,’ as she puts it.

  “Cassie!” Good old Fanny always sounds so happy to hear from me. “I understand you and Truman found the skull. Is it really the skull?” she asked. “Mr. X?”

  I shook my head. “Let me guess. Lindsey visited the Lake Store today?”

  Lindsey Luke, FYI, is Fanny’s companion and assistant. Fanny doesn’t leave her house much in the winter months, so Lindsey acts as her eyes and ears. And evidently, Hollis had “talked the girl’s ear off,” when she stopped in the Lake Store earlier that day.

  “B
ut Truman must be even more excited than Hollis,” Fanny said. “Did he ask to bring it to show and tell?”

  “You know kindergarteners, Fannie.”

  “And I know you, Cassie. I assume you’re looking into this?”

  I gave Fanny a summary of my loved-ones looking, and told her that, like Lindsey, I had started my day at the Lake Store. “Oliver was the seller’s agent when Dad bought our house.”

  “Real estate is one of his many hats,” Fanny agreed. “Oliver was helpful?”

  “Nooo. He was actually kind of snippety, Fanny. I think he blames himself about Truman finding that gruesome skull. But I don’t blame him.”

  “Of course not. That’s like blaming Santa Claus.”

  “I did learn one interesting detail from my father’s realtor,” I said. “Supposedly our house and the Fox Cove were both designed by old Mr. Tumbleton. Which gives us another connection between the two places.”

  “That would be an intriguing detail, wouldn’t it?”

  I sat forward. “Have you ever heard this detail? About the architecture?”

  “I can’t say as I have.”

  I slumped. And Fanny, who has uncanny hearing, probably heard me. She apologized for not knowing. “I know I’m older than the hills,” she said, “but old Mr. Tumbleton had his nickname ‘old’ even when I was a youngster. Both places were built before I was born.”

  “It does seem likely though, doesn’t it?” I said, and she agreed.

  “Both houses have the same—” She hesitated, searching for a polite way to phrase it. “—style,” she tried.

  I thought about it and asked if she had ever even set foot in the Fox Cove Inn.

  “Certainly not when it operated as a bordello,” she told me, but added that the Pearson sisters had given the locals a tour when they re-opened the B and B. “Pru and Arlene hoped we Elizabethans might help them drum up business,” she said, and reported that Pru had been very thorough. “She pointed out every nook and cranny, every askew fireplace, the askew little Honeymoon Cottage.”

  “You still had your eyesight?”

  “I did.”

  I scowled as a thought occurred to me. “The bordello business didn’t get shut down until the 1970’s, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you lived right there, in Mallard Cove, your whole life?”